


How Such Matters Go & How Such Matters End

by Eglantine



Series: Farce AU [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Post-Canon, casual (off-screen) sex, contemplations of adultery, hijinks basically, marriage related scheming, pervasive air of casual queerness, survival AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eglantine/pseuds/Eglantine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joly and Bossuet's accidental arrest during the lead-up to the June barricades causes a domino effect of changes that ends with all of the Friends of the ABC alive. </p><p>Two years later, Joly's parents decide it is high time to quench their son's radicalism with marriage. Unsurprisingly, this does not go as planned.</p><p>A shamelessly silly survival AU/marriage farce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In 1834, when Joly found himself being released from prison for the second time in as many years, his older brother was there to receive him. This, Joly reflected, might actually be a worse punishment than prison. 

“When you were arrested in ’32 we hardly knew what to think,” Alexandre said (he had, at least, granted Joly a couple days’ reprieve before launching into his lecture, one Joly strongly suspected their mother had scripted). “But now that you seem to be making a _habit_ of it—”

“It has always been a habit,” Joly snapped. If two arrests didn’t mean it was time to give up the pretense of being a good royalist, he didn’t know what did. “I am a republican, Alexandre, and have been for more than ten years now.” 

“Mother and father wished me to impress upon you how foolishly you have behaved,” he said.

Joly bit his tongue and sunk into one of Alexandre’s overstuffed chairs to just wait the lecture out. 

“We think—”

“Who is this ‘we’? The royal we?” Joly couldn’t help but ask.

“No,” he said, indignant at being cut off. “Me, mother and father— and Isabelle, too.” This was his wife. The invocation of the rich and lovely Isabelle made Joly realize exactly where this conversation was headed. “We think you should begin to consider marriage.”

“You supposed the fresher I am from prison, the more appealing I will be to genteel young ladies?” Joly said. Alexandre glared. Joly felt faintly irritated that, even now, being glared at by his big brother could make him feel cowed. 

“You’re nearly thirty—”

“I’m twenty-nine.” 

“You’re _nearly thirty_ and it’s high time— we think it might settle you. It does settle a man. To be married. You don’t feel the need to run around chasing after— poets and revolutionaries and what-have-you. Find a nice girl, take a nice house, start practicing medicine like you always wanted to.” 

Joly fidgeted with his cane. The last time he and Alexandre had shared any kind of real conversation, that had indeed been all he wanted. But he had also been about seventeen. His perspectives had shifted somewhat since. Besides which— a thought occurred to him.

“You may not know—” he began.

“Yes, I’m aware of your mistress.”

This brought Joly up short, but only for a moment. “Well— well, suppose I married her?” 

Alexandre laughed, short and sharp. “Really, Anatole, don’t be childish. Laying aside the fact that your inheritance will hardly be enough to allow you to marry a girl with no dowry and keep wearing waistcoats that look like that— it is simply not possible for men like us to do such a thing.”

“God forbid I sully the honor of the great Joly family by marrying a seamstress,” he muttered dryly. 

“No,” Alexandre said at once. “For your own honor. For your own career. In other wealthy men such a thing can be laughed off, brushed aside—but you and I and our brothers must live above reproach. In matters of marriage, at the very least.” 

Joly felt his cheeks grow hot, though on his dark complexion, blushes rarely showed. _This_ part, he knew with complete certainty, their mother— the most beautiful girl in Egypt, their father always said— had not scripted. 

“—and yes,” Alexandre added after a slight pause. “It would be horribly awkward to have a seamstress as my sister-in-law. We could hardly expect our friends to invite her anywhere.”

“So— what, then?” Joly asked. “Am I to walk in the street and seize hold of the next young woman I see?” 

“Obviously not,” Alexandre said. “Isabelle and I are going to a party next week, you will come. Isabelle thinks that some of her friends have sisters and nieces you will like very much.”

“I believe I have met Isabelle thrice, so I am sure she is an excellent judge of my tastes.”

“You have grown waspish,” Alexandre noted. “You should spend less time with that lawyer.” 

*

The coat Joly loaned to Lesgle was somehow both too large and too small: too long at the wrists and too tight across the shoulders. The shirt beneath was his own, which meant that it was rather threadbare for polite company, and bore a few suspicious powder burns near the cuffs. 

In 1832, he and Joly had been arrested in the wave of panic in the wake of Lamarque’s death— which was just his luck, he figured. So they had seen no action then, had not joined the rest on the barricade at Saint-Merry, had played no part in the escape from thence. This time around, Lesgle had avoided arrest, though he had not avoided taking a bayonet butt to the face, and was sporting a rather garish black eye. This did little to improve his overall appearance. But he was at least passable, good enough to accompany Joly to the party without drawing too much comment.

“I would have been quite the important person in Meaux, you know,” Lesgle said as they edged their way through what seemed to be a forest of voluminous ball gowns. “I likely would have hosted parties just like this every day.” 

“Every day?” Joly said. “Perhaps it’s best you lost it all, to spare yourself a life of impossible extravagance.” 

“That’s very true. I am so glad I may rely on you to reveal the purpose in all things.” He shook the too-long coat sleeves away from his hands. At least the length covered his fraying cuffs. “And in fact, on that note, do you think you might reveal your purpose in forcing me to come here with you?” 

Joly looked startled. “You don’t think I’d do something like pick a wife without consulting you?”

“Oh.” Lesgle glanced around. It was somewhat alarming to imagine that one of the anonymous, lace-bedecked young ladies drifting around them might imminently become Madame Joly. “I didn’t realize you intended to make your decision tonight.”

“Well, I hoped to narrow it down at least,” he said. “Apparently my sister-in-law has a fairly extensive list. I thought you could dance with half of them and I could dance with the other half and you could tell me if any of yours seem— interesting.” 

“I’m flattered by your trust in my judgment, but wife-picking by proxy…”

“No, no! I’d speak to them also, obviously! I—ugh.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “I have no wish to go through with this at all, you know that. I don’t want to marry, I don’t know what I’ll do about Musichetta—”

“Don’t you?” Lesgle said, unable to hide his surprise. “You won’t leave her, surely?”

“It just feels…” Joly looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know. Unfair. To whomever I marry. If I’m just… it seems like I ought to _try_ , at least. I will continue to support her as long as she likes, obviously, and continue to see her as long as she’ll let me,” he added quickly. “But it will have to be… less. At least at first. I don’t want to think about it.” He shook his head. “It depresses me.” 

He shook his head, then rallied his spirits. “Besides, you know, politically speaking—I think it makes good sense.”

Lesgle laughed. “Does it? Are these Enjolras’s latest orders? Everyone: marry!” 

“Well, no, but I was thinking… it’s different now, isn’t it.” He glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard. This seemed both inevitable and unlikely: the ballroom was quiet entirely full, with the result that no one was paying them any attention. “These new laws since April… things are only getting more difficult. Causes like ours are being pushed further and further underground. Perhaps a respectable veneer behind which to hide our activities in the future would not be entirely amiss.” 

“Well, tomorrow we will have some wine and you may begin polishing your veneer,” Lesgle said cheerfully, clapping Joly on the shoulder. “For now, let us embrace the opportunity to dance with rich, pretty women. Look, that one seems nice.” 

“Don’t _point,_ for goodness’ sake!” 

*

Perhaps his brother was right, Joly thought— a chilling notion. Perhaps he was less easy-going than he had once been, less willing to quietly do what his family asked to avoid making trouble. A few years before, perhaps he would indeed have done as Bossuet suggested, danced politely with a few pretty girls just to make Alexandre and Isabelle happy… but now he found he could not bring himself to do it. He lurked instead at the fringes of the ballroom, trying to keep out of his brother’s sight. 

“Deadly boring, isn’t it?” said an officer, who clearly undertaking a similar mission to disappear as completely as possible, though he was achieving it with a languid, elegant air, whereas Joly was fairly certain he himself just looked shifty. 

“And who dragged you here?” Joly asked. 

“My aunt,” the officer said. “I’m newly posted to Paris, she’s immensely thrilled. She wants to show me off.” 

“I’d rather be shown off than married off,” Joly muttered. 

“Married?” The officer shifted, their shoulders accidentally brushed together. Or perhaps not accidentally. Joly glanced over— the officer met his gaze steadily. “Won’t that be a shame. Tedious, marriage will be, or at least I’ve always imagined— nearly as tedious as this party.” 

This called to mind another thing he’d likely have to give up, if he wanted to be anything approaching a respectable husband. 

The officer was still looking at him.

 _Oh. Well,_ Joly thought. 

*

Surely at one point in his life, Lesgle had been taught how to speak to genteel women. It seemed like the kind of thing his father would have told him, somewhere along the line. But if the lesson had ever been given, it had apparently long ago been lost. The young ladies found him funny; their mothers, less so, and so Lesgle decided it was time to beat a tactical retreat. He slipped out of a door and found himself in a narrow corridor. It seemed a bit too rude to go wandering around the house, so he decided that it would do well enough for a hiding place. 

But apparently someone else had the same idea. 

As he moved down the little hallway (for it seemed inevitable that if he stayed near the door, someone would open it and strike him— that was simply how things worked) he tripped over— something, a cloud of lace which let out a squeal and suddenly resolved itself into a girl, a young, pretty girl in an extravagantly lacy dress. 

“I beg your pardon,” she cried, bobbing into a curtsey. 

“And I beg yours,” he replied. “I am the one intruding on you.”

She shrugged, which made her huge sleeves wobble. She kept her eyes demurely lowered, but every few seconds they would flick briefly upwards, taking him in. 

“Well— I don’t know the proper etiquette for an encounter in a corridor, but—” He sketched a bow. “I’m—”

“Yes, I know who you are,” she broke in abruptly. 

“Do you?” Lesgle said, surprised. 

“Yes, my sister pointed you out to me.” 

“Oh,” Lesgle said. They must have danced earlier in the evening; perhaps the sister had been warning her away from having her toes stepped on. “Well, I’m afraid I don’t know your name.” 

“Lucile Bouchard, monsieur.” 

“And may I enquire what brings you here?”

“To the party?” she asked. “Or to this corridor.”

“The corridor,” he said with a laugh. “I think I can venture a few guesses as to why you are at this party.”

“Yes, I imagine you could,” she said with a wry smile. “I went to school in a convent, and when I was there I always imagined how very glamorous going to parties would be, wearing beautiful dresses, dancing with handsome men. I did not realize that in fact, it was all a cover for the very tedious duty of finding a husband.” 

“It seems rather hard, doesn’t it— not only to be forced to marry, but to pretend you are enjoying doing so.” He was, not for the first time that night, grateful to be free from it all. 

Mademoiselle Bouchard laughed. “Shall we sit, monsieur?” 

She sunk back down to the floor, half-disappearing into her own voluminous skirt. Lesgle followed suit. They sat in silence for a few moments, Mademoiselle Bouchard worrying at a loose string on her glove, Lesgle watching her. Every few moments, she glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. It seemed possible she thought he did not notice this, but he couldn’t quite tell. 

(It was at this point he stopped bothering to try and ignore the fact that Mademoiselle Bouchard was very pretty indeed, alarming quantities of lace set aside.) 

“Well, then,” she said at last. “What brings you here?” 

“Oh, I realized I’ve quite forgotten how to behave in polite society. I’m fairly certain I knew once, but as with so many things I learned as child, the knowledge is now lost.”

“Well, you can’t have done anything very atrocious, because then everyone in there would have something to talk about.” Then, before he could respond, she asked, “What happened to your eye?”

“Oh, er…” He’d nearly forgotten the bruise. He brought his fingers self-consciously to his face. “I was, um. In a riot.” 

She lifted her brows. “Were you really? Over what?” 

He scrubbed his hands over his head. “I haven’t been to a party in a very long time, but I _do_ remember that politics are not generally considered polite conversation.” 

“Nothing interesting is considered polite conversation,” she said darkly. “I promise I will not be offended, though I confess I may not understand. At least attempting to understand will give me something to _think_ about.” 

He took in her expression carefully. She did seem to mean it. He laughed. “Very well. The short version is simple enough — there was action taken in support of the rebelling silk workers in Lyon. It went very badly and ended very quickly. Several of my friends were arrested, though it was decided they were not leaders, thank God, and they were released. It was quite lucky— and that is something I _never_ have cause to say— that I only came away with this. In 1830—” He broke off abruptly. “I’m very sorry. I really shouldn’t talk about these things. It’s not appropriate, and it’s not wise.” He grinned. “You might be a police informant, after all. I cannot imagine why else you would want to sit here talking with me.” 

She shrugged, suddenly newly interested in casually inspecting some of the lace on her skirt. “Perhaps I am beginning to find you interesting.”

“A sad comment on the intellectual spirit of this party as a whole.” 

“Do you mock me, monsieur?”

“No more than I mock myself, mademoiselle.” 

“Hm.” She said. She pursed her lips; it was plain she was considering something, but he couldn’t tell what. “I believe I am ready to return. Will you escort me, monsieur?”

“Yes, of course.” 

A small pause. She prompted, “Now is when you ask me to dance.” 

“Oh,” Lesgle said, taken aback somewhat. “Well, why— yes. Yes, I’d like that very much.” 

He scrambled to his feet, then offered a hand to help Mademoiselle Bouchard up as well. She rose in a rustle of silk and petticoat. She was quite tall; an uncharitable individual would point out that she was, in fact, just a touch taller than Lesgle himself. Their eyes could meet quite conveniently. And they did meet. Lesgle thought, _it’s a shame I’m too poor to keep a mistress._ And then he thought, _it’s a shame you can’t ask good society girls to be your mistress._ Then he thought, _I really don’t belong here._

“Shall we?” he said. She tugged her hand out of his (perhaps with some reluctance, he thought?) and instead took his more politely offered arm. They made their way back down the little corridor and back into ballroom.

“I’ve been impolite,” Lesgle said suddenly. “I believe it is now your turn to speak of something, anything— which I will do my best to understand.” 

She looked faintly suspicious. “Anything? Really?”

He nodded solemnly. “Absolutely anything.” 

She lifted a brow. “The theories of Evariste Galois?”

This was not the answer he was expecting. “You are politically minded, mademoiselle?”

“Mathematically, monsieur.” 

Before Mademoiselle Bouchard could explain further, they were hailed by a rather harried-looking Joly.

“Bossuet!” he cried. “ _There_ you are.”

“Bossuet?” Mademoiselle Bouchard asked.

“It’s a… rather elaborate nickname,” he said. “I’m terribly sorry, I ran into Mademoiselle Bouchard here…”

“Yes, how do you do,” Joly said, glancing distractedly at her. “I need your help, Bossuet, my sister-in-law keeps asking me questions and I haven’t had a chance to dance with anyone.” 

“Really? What have you been doing all this time?” Lesgle asked. 

“I, uh, got distracted…” He glanced at Mademoiselle Bouchard, who was looking mightily intrigued by this conversation. “I’ll explain later. Oh, damn, here she comes…”

And indeed, over swept Isabelle Joly.

“Ah, Anatole!” she cried. “I see you have met Mademoiselle Bouchard, how very splendid.”

“Er, yes,” Joly said. “And I, uh, I was just about to ask her to dance. If you please, Mademoiselle?” 

Mademoiselle Bouchard cast an amused glance at Lesgle, who grinned and shrugged. She dipped into a curtsey and accepted Joly’s offered hand. 

“It would be an honor, monsieur.” 

Lesgle distinctly saw Joly mouth ‘thank you’ to Mademoiselle Bouchard has he led her away. Fortunately Isabelle, to judge by her placid smile as she watched them move into the set of dancers, did not. Lesgle watched as well, and hoped faintly that Joly would not have the chance to learn Mademoiselle Bouchard’s opinions on Galois before he did. 

*

_My dearest Cosette,_

_You may chide as much as you wish, I simply cannot call you Euphrasie. It is very pretty indeed, as you say, but I have known you as Cosette since our convent days, and I cannot train myself out of the habit now._

_I write to you with strange and I hope exciting news. It seems very likely I am to be married, to a young man called Monsieur Joly. I think we will do very well together, for upon our brief acquaintance, I like him very much. You may divine from this that it is a match made not in heaven or in our souls, but by our parents… but for all that, as I say, I think it may not be a very bad thing._

_I write also to inquire if there is any hope at all of your father permitting you to come to Paris for the wedding. You may assure him that, if he does not wish to make the journey himself, our home is open to you._

_I am ever your affectionate  
Lucile _

*

“The fact of the matter is…” Joly stopped, rubbed his nose with his cane, lowered his cane, took a breath, tried again. “The fact of the matter is, it’s not entirely in my hands.” 

“Ah, yes,” Musichetta said. She was perched on the edge of her bed, but Joly was certain no woman had ever sat on a bed and looked less inviting. “The burdens of the wealthy.”

“No,” Joly said at once. “No. The burdens of the marginally wealthy whose inheritance will ultimately be divided between four brothers and whose parents expect them to maintain appearances. If I were as rich as— as Enjolras, I would marry whoever I liked— I would marry you, and no one could stop me.” 

“Surely you don’t think I’m criticizing you?” Musichetta said. “I understand, I genuinely do.” 

“I think it would actually be easier if you were very angry and refused to speak to me,” Joly said with a sigh.

“I’m afraid I cannot oblige you on that front. Come here.” She held out her hands and he collapsed into her, burying his face against her shoulder. “Genteel young men must marry, and they rarely marry seamstresses. I did not take up with you thinking it would be otherwise.”

“ _I_ wanted it to be otherwise,” Joly said. “I know you don’t believe me, I know perhaps you never have, but— I love you, Musichetta. I will not leave you, if you will still have me. I don’t know what else to do.” 

“I suppose there is nothing else you can do,” she replied. 

“And as for the rest?” he asked hesitantly. 

“Oh, well.” She sighed heavily and began to loosen Joly’s cravat. “You have a key… if you wish to come by, how could I stop you?” 

*

When Joly had gone, she went in search of Lesgle. 

“I want to see her.”

“Right,” he said. “Well, I understand that. Though I’m not sure how it can be arranged. In fact, I don’t even know her name.”

“He hasn’t spoken to you about it?” Musichetta asked, surprised.

“Well, every time I mention it, he just groans like he’s about to die and drops his head into his hands, so I stopped inquiring.” 

“He is being a bit melodramatic,” Musichetta admitted. “Though I suppose, in his defense, he wasn’t given a great deal of choice in the matter. It seems this morning, his brother just said and 'what did you think of Mademoiselle Bouchard' and he said she’d seemed quite sweet and that was that.” 

Lesgle blinked. “—Mademoiselle Bouchard, you say?” 

“Yes. Apparently she’s connected to the Montmorencys, very wealthy indeed.” 

“She is,” Lesgle said, hoping Musichetta could not tell that he was scrambling to collect his thoughts. “I met her. I— I didn’t think— well, anyway. As it happens, I can be of more use than I thought. Mademoiselle Bouchard goes to church at Petit-Picpus, and will be there today. Apparently she went to school there. She— well, of course, she was saying it for Joly’s benefit, but as I was standing with him, I overheard. And as I doubt very much he intends to go… we did meet, she and I, it wouldn’t be wholly improper. We can pass you off as my sister.” 

Musichetta looked skeptically at Lesgle. They were both short and fair complexioned, and there any physical similarities stopped. She sighed. “Oh, well, it will do well enough.” 

*

Lesgle pointed her out as they were taking communion: a tall, slender, dark-haired young woman in a very fashionable dress. She noticed them looking, and though her expression remained impassive, once the service was over, she immediately managed to locate them amongst the crowd filing out. 

“Mademoiselle Bouchard,” Lesgle said, sketching a bow. “May I present my sister— Myriam.” (Musichetta pinched him.) 

“Why, yes of course!” Mademoiselle Bouchard cried a little too loudly, as another woman who looked quite similar to her caught up to them. “Jeanne, you remember meeting Mademoiselle Myriam last night, do you not?” 

“Oh, er… yes, of course,” Jeanne said, doing very little to disguise the fact that she plainly had no recollection at all of any such encounter. “Naturally. Such a pleasure to meet you again, mademoiselle.” 

“And you,” Musichetta murmured. 

“Such a lovely day,” Mademoielle Bouchard mused. “Really, it is a shame to waste it. Why, won’t you join us for a walk? Jeanne, your husband will not miss us for another hour at least, I’m sure of it. Suppose we all walk together.” 

“—yes, of course, how nice,” Jeanne, who could hardly politely refuse now, said with a strained smile. Mademoiselle Bouchard smiled serenely and stepped forward at once to link her arm with Musichetta’s. Lesgle offered his to Jeanne, and the four set off. Mademoiselle Bouchard set a brisk pace, and before long, she and Musichetta were several yards ahead of the other two. 

“Right, then,” Mademoiselle Bouchard said. “It is so very nice to meet you.”

“—I’m not his sister,” Myriam said. “I suppose I ought to say that first.”

“I did wonder, you don’t look much alike at all. May I ask who you are, then, Mademoiselle Myriam?” 

“Well, first, do please call me Musichetta— no one calls me Myriam. And, well— I believe you are engaged to marry my lover.”

“—ah,” Mademoiselle Bouchard said. 

“I want nothing from you, hold nothing against you,” Musichetta said quickly. “I only wanted to meet you.” 

“I understand, of course,” Mademoiselle Bouchard said. Musichetta imagined that many young women would accompany this statement with an expression of pity, but Mademoiselle Bouchard did not. 

Musichetta laughed. “To be perfectly honest, now that I’m actually here, I have no idea. I suppose I wonder… what you think of it all.”

“Well.” She looked thoughtful. “I would never go so far as to say— but it seems to me we could be happy together.. I hardly know him, of course. But he’s very charming and he— well, he actually listens when you talk. And seems interested. And has done interesting things himself, believes things, not like some of the awful boys my parents threw at me before, they didn’t care about anything but—oh, I don’t know, hair pomade. I confess,” she said, lowering her voice, “It is rather surprising to meet such a young man who is so entirely bald. But— well, it’s really not wholly unhandsome.” 

Musichetta stared. Mademoiselle Bouchard blushed faintly—the first sign of embarrassment she’d given, and said quickly, “I’m sorry, that was unkind. This cannot be easy for you.” 

“…who do you think we’re talking about?” Musichetta asked.

Mademoiselle Bouchard gave her a funny look, but evidently decided to play along. “Monsieur Joly, of course.” 

“And who is Monsieur Joly?” 

She glanced over her shoulder at Lesgle and Jeanne, the latter of whom seemed to be patiently enduring a rather animated lecture from the former. She looked back to Musichetta, who still could only stare. 

Finally, she managed to say, “I believe there has been an error.” 

“What?”

“Did he ever actually say to you that he’s called Joly?” 

“Well— no, actually. But Jeanne pointed him out to me, our parents particularly wished me to meet him.” 

“And, ah, out of curiosity… who was he standing with when she pointed him out?” 

“I don’t— oh, yes, I do. He was with a, a tall darkish fellow. Black hair, dark skin. I danced with him, too, later.” 

Musichetta stopped walking and seized both of Mademoiselle Bouchard’s hands in hers. “My dear— _that_ was Joly. The darkish fellow— _that_ is my lover. And your fiancé.”

It was Mademoiselle Bouchard’s turn to stare. She started to turn, but then realized that would be rather conspicuous, and stopped, instead seizing hold of Musichetta’s arm and whispering urgently, “Then who is _that?_ ”

“That is Lesgle. His best friend.” 

She glanced back over her shoulder, more casually this time. “I thought _he_ was the one I— well, it’s no matter. One young man is as good as another in my parents’ eyes.”

Musichetta snorted. “Not in this case, I’m afraid. He has no money and no family.”

“--Monsieur Joly is perfectly nice, of course,” Mademoiselle Bouchard said quickly. “But we did not— that is to say, if I’d realized who he was, I wouldn’t have— oh, _damn._ ”

* 

After they made their farewells, Lucile glanced back behind her at Musichetta and Lesgle, retreating in the opposite direction. Musichetta was whispering something— she saw Lesgle start and glance sharply back towards her. Their eyes met. Feeling quite stupid indeed, she shrugged. Lesgle stared for a long moment, then, to her complete surprise, started to laugh. 


	2. Chapter 2

“It’s in keeping with my luck entirely,” Lesgle said cheerfully the next day. “I would have expected absolutely nothing else.” 

“That’s very fascinating,” Musichetta said. “What makes you think that seat was reserved for you?” 

Lesgle blinked. He glanced around at the café in which they were seated—none of their other friends were there. Musichetta was sitting alone, with an empty chair opposite. He had run into her quite by accident, but it was all so perfectly timed he had just assumed it was somehow by design. 

“You’re expecting someone?” he asked. “Who?”

She sighed. “A gentleman. Joly has the best of intentions, but who knows what will happen after he’s married? It’s not that I mistrust him,” she said quickly, when Lesgle began to protest. “I’m simply saying he cannot know, and I must have a plan in place. This fellow has been flirting with me for months now, it seemed time to give him a chance.” 

“Well, I can’t dispute that logic,” Lesgle said. “But may I stay until he comes?” 

“Oh… yes, very well. There was a time when you had other friends, you know.” 

“I do!” he cried. “Everything has been… unsettled, lately. It is difficult to meet as we used to, our good ministers have seen to that. Besides, I can hardly complain of my woes to anyone else. They might tell Joly, and he cannot know.”

“And therefore I am your safest option?”

“Well, yes,” he replied. “The last person Joly wishes to speak about Lucile Bouchard with is you.” 

“…yes, fair enough,” she conceded. She straightened in her chair, spying someone over Lesgle’s shoulder. “Right, then, there he is. Go away, won’t you?”

“Can’t I meet him, at least?” Lesgle asked, grinning, but at Musichetta’s glare he obediently stood, though not quite in time to avoid bumping into the gentleman in question as he turned. He was a captain, tall and handsome, with a perfectly fashionable waspish waist and a honey-colored moustache. Lesgle glanced back at Musichetta and murmured, “Bravo.”

“What’s that?” the captain said.

“I said, beg your pardon, monsieur,” Lesgle replied cheerfully. “For bumping into you, and for intruding. Musichetta and I are old friends, you see, so it is my duty to tease her. Isn’t that right?” 

“Tease, torment… what’s the difference, really.” Musichetta smiled sweetly. “Sit, won’t you, Theodule?” 

“Theodule Gillenormand,” the captain said, bowing sharply to Lesgle, who offered a startled, clumsy bow in return. 

“Lesgle—but I’ll leave you two to— is that Joly?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Musichetta muttered as Joly bounded across the café to join them.

“Hallo! What are you doing here?” he asked cheerfully. 

“I hardly know anymore,” Musichetta sighed. 

“Well. Hello,” Theodule said, giving Joly an odd look. Joly, noticing Theodule for the first time, returned it with a look of blank surprise.

“Oh—er, yes, how good to see you, uh…”

“Theodule,” Lesgle supplied. 

Joly winced. “Right.” 

“How on earth do you two know each other?” Musichetta asked. 

“We, uh…” Joly cast a sideways glance at Lesgle. “We met at that party the other day.”

Lesgle practically choked. “Well. We’ll leave you to it…”

“Oh, don’t feel you must go,” Theodule said. 

“ _Mustn’t_ they?” Musichetta muttered. 

“You know, I think I’ve heard the name Gillenormand before,” Lesgle said cheerfully, taking Theodule at his word and dragging a spare chair over from one of the nearby tables. Musichetta dropped her face into her hands. 

“Marius,” Joly said, pulling over a chair of his own. “He mentioned once he had some odious relations by that name. Er, no offense.”

“That would be my grand-uncle,” Theodule said, plainly untroubled. “His grandfather. Disowned him, I believe. You know Marius?”

“We have friends in common,” Joly said. “I would wager you don’t know them.”

“We haven’t seen him in an age, as it happens,” Lesgle said. “He travels a great deal these days— though when he’s in Paris, he still stays with Courfeyrac, does he not?” 

“Yes, I think that’s true…” 

“What happened to your eye?” Theodule asked. 

“One of your brothers-in-arms,” Lesgle replied.

“I cannot _tell_ you how thrilled I am to see you all getting along,” Musichetta cut in in a tone positively oozing sugar-sweet sarcasm. “I thought to myself, an officer on the one hand, you two on the other— they couldn’t _possibly_ — but here you are. Perhaps _I_ should leave _you_ to it?” 

“Oh, well, if you have someplace to be, don’t let us keep you,” Theodule said. 

Musichetta stood, nearly knocking her chair backwards with the violence of the gesture. She whirled on Joly and murmured icily, “You and I will speak later.” 

Slightly stunned, the three gentlemen watched her storm out of the café. An awkward silence settled over them once she was gone, broken at last when Lesgle clapped his hands together and said, “Right then. Really, Joly? You slept with a _lancer_?” 

“Well, that was blunt,” Theodule said. 

“I’m a plainspoken man, really,” Lesgle said cheerfully. “Now, as for you, Monsieur Marius’s Cousin— Musichetta said you’ve been chasing after her for some time, do you really want to let her go so easily? She’s a splendid girl, really. Joly can attest.” 

“But I don’t plan to.” 

“Oh, she’s pretty enough,” Theodule said, shrugging. “But it wasn’t her I was after. You might say I— began to admire the company she keeps. I didn’t know you knew her too, until I saw you two arrive at the party,” he said to Joly. “But I figured, well, bit of a two birds, one stone situation there, isn’t it.” 

There was a pause. 

“Oh,” Joly said.

“Huh,” Lesgle said.

*

When they arrived back at Joly’s flat, Musichetta was waiting. At a look from her, Lesgle discreetly absented himself. Joly sunk into the sofa with a sigh.

“I’m very sorry,” he said. “None of that was my intent. I didn’t know you would even be there.”

“I’m sure you didn’t,” she said coldly. “But upon noticing that I was there, and with another gentleman, the polite response would have been to _leave_.”

“But Lesgle was—” The words withered in his mouth under her glare. “Yes, I know.” 

She sat down beside him. He tentatively put his arm around her shoulders, his grip growing more confident when she let her head droop against his shoulder.

“You’re getting married,” she said quietly. “It’s been just you— well, just you and Lesgle— for quite some time now, I know. But you are looking to your future, and so must I.” 

“Of course,” Joly said. “Of course you must. I’m really— I’m so very sorry. It won’t happen again. Though if I may be so bold, I really do think this is for the best with that Theodule fellow.”

“What, just because he’s an officer?”

“Er, and because he and I…”

She snorted. “Joly, my dear, if I were troubled at the thought of you and I making love to the same man, I wouldn’t sleep with Lesgle, now, would I. Though that is rather unlike you, just a stranger like that.”

“I was in a very bad mood,” Joly replied. “It was at the party, it seemed far preferable to having to go out and meet my future wife. And I’ve been paying very close attention since, and there doesn’t _seem_ to be any— er, well, anyway...” 

“You off with a man while Lesgle flirted with a woman. A reversal indeed.”

“Lesgle was flirting with a woman at the party?” 

“Oh, uh… no one in particular, I don’t think.” 

“Right,” Joly said. Then, perfectly content to resume wallowing in his own misfortune, he leaned his head against Musichetta’s with a sigh. 

“It is what it is, my love,” Musichetta said. “You’re simply going to have to accept it. You’re engaged. Things must change. You have dedicated your life to changing things.”

“Yes, but it really wasn’t _my_ life that was supposed to change.”

She laughed and kissed his cheek and stood. “I will come this evening, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please,” he said, hoping the words didn’t sound quite as desperate to Musichetta’s ears as they did to his own. Judging by her smile, they did. He rose and held out his hands, which she took, and then pulled her close, and for several long moments just held her, his face pressed against her curls. Then he kissed her, and then let go.

“Until tonight,” she said. 

After a few minutes (the precise amount of time it took Musichetta to leave, nod to Lesgle loitering outside, and for him to make his way inside), Lesgle poked his head in the door. Joly turned to him, feeling resolute for the first time in days. 

“I cannot marry her,” Joly said. “I love Musichetta. I cannot marry Mademoiselle Bouchard. I know you will say no one is keeping me from just marrying her and having Musichetta as my mistress, but I simply cannot do it.” 

“Right,” Lesgle said (he thought, _this feeling is not hope, it is not, it is not_ ). “So what will you do?”

“I cannot break off the engagement. She will be quite ruined, socially, if I jilt her. And I certainly do not wish her any ill,” Joly said. “So— so I must convince _her_ to break it off.”

“That will take quite a lot. It’s hardly as if it was a love match in the first place,” Lesgle pointed out.

“Right, but suppose we came up with something that her parents were bound to object to?”

“Please don’t tell her about me,” Lesgle said instantly. Then he added, “—or Theodule.”

“What? No,” Joly said. “That wasn’t what I had in mind at all, are you mad? I thought… well, I thought we might contrive a way to introduce her to our friends.” 

Lesgle stared. Then he started to laugh. “Well, her parents won’t like that, that’s certain. They could distress the most mercenary matchmaker. How on earth will you manage to get her into the company of nine men, though?” 

“Oh, that’s easy enough. I’ll encourage her to come to call at my brother’s house— when Alexandre and Isabelle are gone, of course— and then all our friends will, you know, _coincidentally_ join us.”

Lesgle suddenly brightened. “And, you know— to borrow our new friend Theodule’s phrase— perhaps we can get two birds with one stone here. These new laws, you know, we haven’t yet found a way to get around them for our meetings… but a purely social gathering at the home of a respectable merchant? Why, who would look twice? It makes perfect sense the sons of such well-to-do families would move in the same social circles— the de Courfeyracs, the Enjolrases, the Prouvaires…” 

“Brilliant. Oh, brilliant!” Joly beamed. “And thus, I will be made a free bachelor once more, the Friends of the ABC can continue to plot the overthrow of the state… and I am sure I can persuade Grantaire to spill something on that really hideous sofa of Alexandre’s. Then _all_ my troubles truly will be ended. And you’ll help, won’t you?”

“Yes, yes, of course.”

“—and you’ll do me one other favor, too?” 

“Yes, anything.” 

“I must go call on the Bouchards tomorrow, will you come?” 

Lesgle laughed. “At _some_ point, it may become necessary for you to speak with her yourself.”

“Yes, but why not put it off as long as possible?” He put on his most pitiful face. “Won’t you please?” 

_Say no,_ Lesgle thought. _You can’t have her if Joly marries her, but you still can’t have her if he doesn’t, so just get yourself out of this mess now._

“Yes, of course I will,” he said. 

*

The Bouchards were wonderfully wealthy, but also quite religious, and so said wealth was flaunted only in the most tasteful of ways. The drawing room was far less ornately decorated than, say, that of Joly’s older brother, but the simpler-looking furniture all carried a strange aura of assurance that it had also cost thrice as much. Joly and Lesgle sat stiffly on chairs worth more than their lives while Monsieur and Madame Bouchard subjected Joly to polite conversation that sounded suspiciously like an interrogation, while Mademoiselle Bouchard watched with an expression of vague interest.

“I thought they _wanted_ you to marry him?” Lesgle managed to edge over to Mademoiselle Bouchard and whisper as Monsieur Bouchard set in to inquiring about the nature of Joly’s medical studies.

“Oh, they do,” Mademoiselle Bouchard replied. “They’re always like this. It’s best to think of it like a catechism, and always automatically say what is expected.” 

“What, am I next?”

“Well, no, not with that jacket,” she murmured. “I imagine they’re pretending you don’t exist.” 

He glanced over at the Bouchard parents. “Perhaps I can take my newfound state of invisibility, then, to offer my apologies. For the misunderstanding that took place at the party.”

“The fault was mine, monsieur, no apology is required.” 

“Is there not? It seems to me I may have accidentally caused you to agree to an engagement under somewhat false pretenses.” 

She hesitated. “—well, yes. Musichetta told you that, I suppose. It’s not… wrong. But what is there to do?” 

For a moment, Lesgle considered telling her about Joly’s plan. But a glance at the stern aspects of Maman and Papa Bouchard convinced him otherwise. It seemed unfair to force her to try and convince those faces to let her out of an engagement for no particular reason. 

Mademoiselle Bouchard smiled ruefully at Lesgle’s silence. “There, you see?” But then, after a small pause of her own, she said, her voice even lower, “I do wish we could speak somehow.” 

He grinned. “Why, mademoiselle, can you not simply sneak away in disguise? It suits the heroines of plays and novels well enough.”

“—perhaps that could work.”

He blinked. “Oh, I— I was joking…”

“Yes, I know you were, but—”

A lull fell between Joly and her parents, and she was forced to break off. The silence that then settled was profoundly awkward. 

At long last, Joly cleared his throat and said, “Mademoiselle Bouchard, my brother’s wife begs the honor of your presence for tea tomorrow.”

“May I, mama?” 

“I’ve promised to call on Madame Renaud…” Madame Bouchard said, but before her uncertainty could take the form of a full denial, Mademoiselle Bouchard cut in.

“That is no matter,” she said. “Madame Joly has a very fine coach, I have seen it. She can send it for me, and I can go myself.” 

Madame Bouchard nodded curtly and turned back to Joly. Mademoiselle Bouchard met Lesgle’s eye and arched a single brow in a gesture which clearly asked, _how’s that?_

*

First: Lesgle convinced Joly that since Isabelle and Alexandre were making use of their very fine coach, Joly could leave it to him to hire a fiacre to fetch Mademoiselle Bouchard. 

Second: Lesgle, via Musichetta (in the guise of his ‘sister’) dispatched a message to Mademoiselle Bouchard so that she would not be unduly surprised.

Third: Lesgle sat in the fiacre and watched as Mademoiselle Bouchard tore out of the house, shouting farewells over her shoulder, so that she could be in and away before Madame and Monsieur Bouchard could get too close a look at the carriage. 

Fourth: And there they were. Side by side in a hired hack. 

“This is very silly,” Mademoiselle Bouchard said as soon as they’d set off. 

“In what particular?” Lesgle asked, because he could frankly think of several. 

“It is only an infatuation. You and I.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.”

“It just seemed to me that that would be a better beginning to a marriage than utter indifference. Or worse.”

“That makes perfect sense.” 

“Well, so.” She sounded faintly impatient. “What would be most convenient is if we could find a way to make it stop. Perhaps you could tell me some very terrible things about yourself, for example.” 

“That is an extensive list,” he said solemnly. “You have chosen to overlook my lack of hair, and my clothes betray my poverty— I am from Meaux, which my southern friends consider a distinct disadvantage— I can endeavor to explain to you the curious phenomenon of my bad luck, but no one believes it until they have seen it. Though to find myself quite smitten with my best friend’s fiancée, of all women in the world, is a very compelling example of it.” 

A smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, just a spot of bad luck, am I?” 

“Certainly, mademoiselle. The circumstances have conspired remarkably precisely. First, you are betrothed to my best friend, however unwillingly, so the codes of honor prevent me from pursuing you. Second, you are a genteel young lady, far too respectable to share my company, much less— anything else. If you were a grisette, or married to anyone else, the whole situation would be much clearer.”

“Would it?” She leaned in. “And what would you do, if either of those things were true?” 

“Er,” he said. He was very aware, all of a sudden, of her very well-made gown, her tasteful, expensive jewelry, her elaborate bonnet, her white-gloved hands clasped demurely in her lap. He cleared his throat. “It would just be… more straightforward. To, er, ease the feelings of, um, infatuation.”

“Hm,” she said. She tugged off her bonnet and tossed it onto the seat beside her. “Perhaps you had best show me.” 

*

Few things could have surprised Marius Pontmercy more than the sight of a trimly-dressed, mustachioed lancer loitering on the doorstep of number 16, rue de la Verrerie. Marius, approaching, stopped dead in his tracks and looked around nervously. He’d been slowly but surely being pulled more deeply into the political activities he had once fled—but surely he’d done nothing worthy of arrest… or at least, not recently? Was the lancer waiting for Courfeyrac, then? Did lancers even arrest people? 

The lancer turned and saw him. His manner, in contrast to his sharp dress, was languid. He raised a hand in greeting and cried, “Why, Marius!” 

Right. Well, _that_ surprised him more. 

“Do I know you, monsieur?” he asked hesitantly, drawing closer.

“Well, I know you,” the lancer said. “And I really think we should know each other better. I am your cousin, Captain Theodule Gillenormand.” 

Marius just stared. Finally, he managed to say, “Did my grandfather send you?”

Theodule looked faintly offended. “That old bastard? No, I haven’t been forced to share his company in years now, thank God.” 

“Um. Right.” Marius blinked. “Well, I—I would invite you in, but I’m afraid I’m only a guest here myself.” He didn’t even have a key. And there was no telling what kind of seditious materials Courfeyrac had strewn about at any given moment. Marius would know: for the past two years, he had been using his job writing English and German travelers’ guides to the French countryside to help Courfeyrac pass messages to republican groups in the provinces on behalf of the Friends of the ABC. 

“No matter, perhaps I can tempt you to a glass of wine,” Theodule said, clearly either unable or unwilling to take the hint. 

“I’m afraid I really can’t, I’m meant to meet— ah, here he is…” 

Courfeyrac gave Theodule an odd passing glance as he strode up the street and pulled Marius immediately into an embrace. 

“Ah, you look exhausted,” Courfeyrac said, cupping Marius’s chin in his hand and clucking like a mother hen. “You do not look after yourself, young man, indeed you do not. And you do not introduce me to your friends.” He turned to Theodule. “I take it you must be Marius’s friend, otherwise I cannot imagine why you would be lurking on my doorstep.”

“His cousin, actually,” replied Theodule. 

“We’ve never met before today,” Marius added quickly. 

“Right. Well, I am off to meet the others— they would be delighted to see you as well, Marius, I’m sure.”

“Ah, then you’ve solved the, er… meeting problem you mentioned? Their, um— their favorite café closed,” Marius said to Theodule. The past two years had somehow not taught him any skill in lying. 

“Indeed we have,” Courfeyrac said. “Won’t you come?” 

“Oh, well…” Marius glanced at Theodule. “I am promised to, uh, to a meal with my cousin here…”

“Oh, no!” Theodule broke in. “Do not let me stop you. Let me escort you, in fact, and on the way we can find a better time. If you do not mind, monsieur?” 

“Not at all, not at all,” Courfeyrac said with a too-hearty smile. “And then, Marius, you can tell both of us about your travels.” 

*

“Well?” Lucile asked breathlessly. “Did that work?”

“—I can’t tell,” Lesgle said. “Maybe we just need to… sit for a moment. Allow it to settle.”

“Yes, good idea.”

They fell silent. The fiacre was nearly at Joly’s door. 

Then, very suddenly, she said, “Oh, my God.”

“What?” Lesgle asked, alarmed.

“I’ve just realized— you’re Lesgle from Meaux, called Bossuet— it’s some horrible pun, isn’t it.” 

A small pause. 

“I think I’m in love with you,” Lesgle said.

*

The atmosphere in the drawing room was somewhat tense. 

“—and then when he realized where we were going, he said that he met the Jolys at a party and he would just pop in and say hello, and I couldn’t refuse without explaining why I had to refuse,” Marius whispered miserably. He and a handful of the others were huddled in the corner while Courfeyrac distracted Theodule with small talk. “And that would be as good as denouncing the lot of you to the police, so…” 

“Well, someone has to distract him,” Combeferre hissed. “Get him out of here.”

“It’s my fault he’s here, I’ll think of something…” Marius began.

“Oh, no, no,” Joly broke in. “I’m the host, it will seem less strange if it’s me. I’ll come up with some excuse or other.” 

“I’m sure you will,” Lesgle murmured with a grin. Once Joly had kicked Lesgle, he rose and strode over to Theodule with a hearty smile. A few moments’ conference, then the two left the room, Joly speaking loudly about showing him some painting of his brother’s. 

“Very well, then!” Courfeyrac said. “To business at last. We’re short Prouvaire and Bahorel, but they will be along soon, I’m sure.”

“Grantaire also promised to grace us with his presence,” Lesgle said. “Though we hardly need to wait for him to begin.”

“I cannot stay long,” Feuilly said. “So if we might start—” 

Combeferre cleared his throat loudly and twitched his head in the direction of Mademoiselle Bouchard, still seated demurely on an armchair. 

“Oh, no,” Lesgle said. “Mademoiselle Bouchard does not mind. Do you?”

“Not at all,” she said. “You are an educational society?”

“Not exactly,” Lesgle said over Courfeyrac’s frantic shushing. “Oh, hush, Courfeyrac. Mademoiselle Bouchard was only just telling me that she is a great admirer of Evariste Galois.” 

“Oh, really?” Combeferre said at once. “What do you—”

Enjolras looked faintly uncomfortable. “I do not think this is wise.” 

“Yes, yes, you’re right of course,” Combeferre said. And this resolve lasted about twelve seconds before he said, “But what did you think, mademoiselle, of his ‘Sur la théorie des nombres’? I have been told he was a great reader of Lagrange, and not long after he died I spent some time returning to Lagrange’s work, to see if, in looking at the roots of his theory, I could venture some guess as to where he would have taken them subsequently…” 

“Oh, what a very clever idea! If you wish to speak about Lagrange, I must introduce you to my dear friend Cosette— Euphrasie, I ought to say, but I have always known her as Cosette— she will be coming for the wedding— my goodness, are you quite well, monsieur?”

Marius had let out a strange, strangled wheeze. Feuilly, apparently concerned that Marius might be choking, clapped him on the back a few times. Marius waved him away.

“Beg your pardon— just, er, I’ve never, uh— how did you come to acquire such— such a keen interest in mathematics, mademoiselle?” 

“I was educated in a convent,” Lucile replied. “They were very strict about what we could and could not read— no novels, no poetry. But mathematics were considered perfectly acceptable, and I found the subject to my liking. This friend I speak of— she moved to England— but we have kept up a wonderful correspondence these past two years about the new things that we read.” 

“So you know Galois only as a mathematician, mademoiselle,” Feuilly said with studied neutrality. (Marius appeared to be suffering from a quiet apoplexy. Lesgle was the only one to notice, and decided it was best Joly was not present to attempt to diagnose it.)

“Oh, I know that he was a republican, if that’s what you mean.” An expression of dawning realization crossed her face. “Oh, is _that_ what—”

The ending of her sentence was disrupted by the crashing entrance of Bahorel, Jean Prouvaire, and Grantaire. As they greeted the others, Combeferre edged over to Lucile and said, “Now, about Galois’s theory…”

“Ah!” Bahorel said, overhearing this. “It’s that kind of day, is it? Very good. Finish telling me about the play, Jehan.”

“Oh, gladly,” Jehan replied. “Now, in act three…”

“Bossuet!” Grantaire cried. “It has been an age. Come to me, let me see myself in your head.” 

“He died in a duel,” Feuilly said. “Galois.”

“Really?” Courfeyrac said. “Maybe I should study math after all.” 

Enjolras turned to Marius. “Dare I hope you, at least, will discuss the matter at hand? How did things go in Avignon?” 

Marius jumped, jolted out of a deep reverie by Enjolras’s words. “I, er- what, sorry?”

Enjolras sighed. “Never mind.” 

*

Lesgle hardly noticed when Joly slipped back in. He was leaning against the wall, surveying the scene and every so often catching Lucile’s eye when suddenly Joly was there at his side.

“Well?” Joly asked eagerly. “How fares our plan?”

Lesgle gestured helplessly to the scene: their friends at their most boisterous, short of tearing up paving-stones. Bahorel and Grantaire apparently engaged in some kind of battle of soliloquies, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Enjolras in hot debate, Jean Prouvaire explaining something to Marius that, from what they could overhear, appeared to involve opium— and of course, Combeferre and Lucile herself, now in deep discussion of some mathematical principle no one else could understand. 

“Damn,” Joly said. 

*  
 _  
My dear Cosette,_

_Today I met M. Joly’s friends. They are all so strange, I am sorely tempted to write you a great catalogue of all their eccentricities, but to read gossip about men you do not know would certainly bore you to tears._

_One of them, called Marius Pontmercy, I discovered to be a relation of family friends, so you may indeed meet him. The rest, I fear, could hardly be admitted to my mother and father’s society. But he made a strange member of their company, quiet where the rest are loud— where they are enthusiastic, he is somber, perhaps even melancholy. Indeed, my dear, there was something in his manner in repose that reminded me of you._

_I am thrilled beyond words that your Papa has granted you permission to return for the wedding. It is to be in two months’ time, and I will be counting the hours until I can see you._

_Your devoted  
Lucile_

_*_

_Dearest Cosette,_

_Nothing would give me greater joy than to see you sooner, as you suggest! Our home is open to you, and I will daily await your coming. I cannot imagine what you must have said to your father to persuade him to part with you for so long… you must teach me all your tricks when you arrive._

_Your impatient friend  
Lucile   
_


	3. Chapter 3

Musichetta arrived home one day, a few days after the meeting of the Friends of the ABC at the Jolys’ drawing room, to find that a message had been slipped under her door.

The next day, with no small degree of trepidation, she presented herself at the Bouchard residence. Lucile was lying in wait, and scooped Musichetta up at the door before the she could introduce herself to the stately-looking butler. Lucile whisked her upstairs to a cozy, sunlit parlor. 

“How many rooms does this house have?” Musichetta asked. She was sure this was not the room Lesgle and Joly had described in great detail: it was too warm, insufficiently posh and oppressive-feeling.

“Why, are not all homes designed that the occupants may occupy as much space with as little chance of seeing each other as possible?” Lucile asked dryly. She perched herself on a loveseat and gestured for Musichetta to join her. “Come, sit. Are you well?” 

“Oh, well enough. I was… surprised to hear from you.” 

Lucile laughed. “Yes, I imagine you were. I wasn’t sure if it was right to trouble you, but… well, you see, I think—” She leaned in closer. “I think we may be able to help each other. But first, I wonder if I might ask a very impertinent question.”

“Well,” Musichetta said. “How can I refuse that kind of request?” 

“I wonder if you are in love with Monsieur Joly.”

Musichetta looked down at her hands, folded in her lap. After a few moments, she said, “I don’t think I should say.”

“I will think no differently of you either way,” Lucile said quickly. “How could I, given my own situation?”

“No, I mean…” She hesitated. “It does not seem right. As I have never said it to him.” 

“Right,” Lucile said after a small pause. “Well, then. It seems to me that neither of us wants me to marry him. So perhaps between us, we can contrive a way to stop it.” 

Musichetta smiled wryly. “What, you mean the fact that he’s a half-Egyptian radical republican who has been arrested twice isn’t enough?” 

“He’s half French and all Catholic, and most importantly, a man. And I seemed willing to marry him, which was a first. They won’t let that go easily. Besides,” she added. “Surely it is best to leave the politics out of it? I cannot think my parents would bother to do anything, but if were to get around as the reason the engagement was broken, who knows who might overhear?” 

“A very good point,” Musichetta said with a frown. “And might I venture that breaking the engagement won’t necessarily solve your problem? That is— assuming I am guessing at your objection correctly— Joly isn’t exactly the only thing keeping you from Lesgle.” 

“Right.” She seemed to deflate slightly. “You’re quite right, of course.”

Musichetta, on the other hand, felt her confidence returning in the form of something that looked quite like a plan. “But perhaps you should marry Joly.” 

Lucile’s eyes widened. “What?”

“I mean… I mean perhaps it’s best if you marry him,” Musichetta said. Lucile opened her mouth to protest, but Musichetta raised a hand beseechingly. “Wait, listen, I’m only just realizing it, but… we can indeed help one another, if you do marry Joly.” 

“How on earth will that help?” 

“If he doesn’t marry you, it will be someone else— perhaps someone else who dislikes me much more than you do. You must also marry someone, but it cannot be Lesgle, who you will likely never have an excuse to see again. Unless you marry his best friend. At which point, given that Joly does not love you and you do not love him, surely the four of us could reach some kind of… arrangement.” 

Lucile’s expression was utterly inscrutable. At last she said, “That’s mad.” 

“Well, yes,” Musichetta admitted. “But it seems to me it may be the only solution.” 

“Oh, I think you’re entirely right.” 

There came a gentle knocking on the door, and both women nearly leapt out of their seats. Lucile laughed breathlessly, a hand pressed to her heart, and rose to answer. There was a maid at the door; her quiet murmuring was punctuated by Lucile’s cry of delight, and a flurry of quiet directions. With the maid dispatched, Lucile turned to Musichetta, beaming.

“My friend has come— she arrived early, I was not expecting her until the evening. But it is entirely perfect, you must meet her.” 

“Oh…” Musichetta began to rise, smoothing out her skirts. She’d worn her nicest dress, but it still fell far short of the standard of finery set by the rest of the house. “I won’t trouble you, really…” 

“Don’t be silly, you must stay.” She reached out her hands beseechingly; Musichetta hesitated, then took them. “She will adore you. And I think she will prove very helpful to us.” 

“She will not be… well, shocked?”

Lucile smiled serenely. “No, I don’t think so.”

As if on cue, the door swung open and a girl flew in, all but throwing herself into the arms of Lucile, who happily received her. 

“Oh, stand back, let me look at you— my God, what are you _wearing_ , what have the English _done_ to you—”

“Last you saw me, I was in bonnets and convent dresses, I think this is a vast improvement,” the girl said, giving a spin to display her rather eye-catching green-and-blue tartan dress.

“It is very fashionable in England,” Musichetta offered, and the girl turned to her with a radiant smile.

“There! You see?” 

“Musichetta, this is my dear friend Cosette Fauchelevent,” Lucile said. 

“Euphrasie,” the girl corrected.

“There’s no use,” Lucile said. “I will never remember. You will be Cosette while you are here, thank you.” 

“Yes, very well, I surrender. It is very nice to meet you, mademoiselle,” she said, bobbing into a curtsey, which Musichetta returned.

“Now,” Lucile said. “Cosette. We must catch you up.” 

*

It had been a long time— nearly two years, in fact— since the name Cosette had so completely dominated Marius’s thoughts.

Rue Plumet was like a dream to him now. What had seemed at the time like happiness in hindsight seemed to Marius like delirium. Now that the directionless haze of gloom that had consumed him well before 1832 and continued long after had lifted— only now he could see how strange that period had been, how isolated, how dangerous for both of them. 

Now, he thought, he was older, he was more settled, and if he was not precisely happy, he was at least not seeped in and subsumed by that causeless, ceaseless, dreamy melancholy.

He wondered if he still loved her. 

He was still wrapped in these thoughts when Theodule emerged from within the barracks. Finding Marius lost in a reverie, Theodule clapped a hand on his shoulder— Marius jumped and let out a yelp. Theodule laughed.

“I did not think you would come,” he said. 

“Er, yes, well…” Marius blushed. He had not been sure of it either, when he’d agreed to a time and place to meet Theodule while they’d walked with Courfeyrac. But after that strange gathering, it had suddenly seemed like a better idea. “I, um, I realized you do have a point… I have no quarrel with you after all, and— and cousins ought to, ought to know each other.” 

“Capital!” Theodule said cheerfully. “What do you say to a walk through the Luxembourg Gardens?” 

“Yes, I quite enjoy walking there,” Marius said weakly. Theodule nodded sharply and set off, and Marius hurried to fall into step beside him. 

They had walked in silence for several minutes when Theodule finally said, “So, would you like to ask first, or shall I?”

“I beg your pardon?” Marius asked in genuine confusion. 

“Well, it seems fairly evident we both want something from the other,” Theodule said. Marius did not understand how he could possibly be related to someone who possessed the ability to speak with such self-assured calm. “So let’s just get on with it, shall we? Would you like to begin?”

“I need you to take me to call on Mademoiselle Bouchard,” Marius burst out. 

Theodule arched an eyebrow. “You do know she is engaged to your friend, don’t you?”

“It’s not— it’s not her,” Marius said. “Her— she mentioned a friend who is coming to stay with her. I knew her some years ago and I— I would be in your debt, Theodule.” 

“And here is how you may repay it,” Theodule replied. “I likewise crave a closer acquaintance. I want you to bring me the next time you see your friends.” 

“Why?” Marius asked, feeling nervous. “You’re not— that is, you don’t mean them any harm, do you?” 

“No, don’t be foolish,” Theodule said, and Marius supposed that he could take his cousin’s surprise at the question as proof of the sincerity of his answer. “My motives are entirely friendly… and entirely private.” 

“I will inquire no further if you do not.”

“A bargain. And the invitations?”

“A bargain as well.” 

The cousins shook hands.

*

“I have a new plan,” Joly said. 

“Right.” Lesgle resettled himself on the bed into a pose of dutiful listening, and Joly laughed. “Let’s hear it.” 

“It’s plain Mademoiselle Bouchard is— well, she is a woman who can discuss mathematics with Combeferre and is unfazed by a roomful of republicans. Indeed, I can say absolutely nothing against her, except that she is not Musichetta.” 

“—your new plan isn’t to just marry her, is it?”

“No, of course not,” Joly said (Lesgle breathed a silent sigh of relief). “I simply think we must display to her the uttermost depths of my— well, our— romantic depravity.” 

Lesgle stared. “Oh, you can’t mean it.” 

Joly shrugged. “We’re running out of time. I believe the hour has come for drastic measures. Why do you look so pained?” he asked, looking closely at Lesgle’s expression. “I know you that you like to be liked, but surely her opinion doesn’t particularly matter?” 

“Well, I was reflecting on whether it was possible for your family to hate me more than they already do…” Lesgle replied. Then, with a sudden flash of inspiration, he said, “Theodule!” 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Why not? You’ve had an excellent time of it with him so far.” Lesgle grinned and dodged the pillow Joly threw. 

“You’re the one who so tactfully pointed out that he is an officer. We really shouldn’t be—”

“Oh, please, you’re going to raise political objections _now?_ They didn’t bother you _then._ ”

“I wasn’t thinking about politics, he was just _there_ and— oh, nevermind.” 

“I mean it, consider,” Lesgle said. “You and I are known to be friends. Suppose your parents learn of it and decide you simply roped me into a desperate scheme to frighten Mademoiselle Bouchard away? Which is, of course, half true…” 

“If my parents learn of this, there will be far greater problems… but I suppose it is best to be sure there is no room to explain it away,” Joly agreed reluctantly. “And better not to involve anyone else, I suppose. Well… alright, then. Theodule it is.” 

*

It so transpired that the Bouchard parents planned to be away for several days. Lucile was to pass the time with her sister and brother-in-law— which, of course, she did not do. She went word to Lesgle instead. And he (feeling faintly guilty, but reasoning that it really was for the greater good) set the plan into motion. 

* 

Because soldiers are more devoutly punctual than students, and because Marius Pontmercy was all but crawling out of his skin with nervous apprehension and just wanted to get this all over with, the Gillenormand cousins arrived first. 

“—oh,” said Lucile when they were shown to the drawing room. She had been putting herself in readiness for an entirely different young man. Cosette, at her side, who had not been putting herself in readiness for any young man at all, dropped her book. 

( _Quick,_ Marius thought. _If you were Bahorel, you could make a comment now about how she is like Francesca, dropping the book and revealing their secret— wait, but doesn’t Paolo get murdered after that? And then doesn’t Dante write about them suffering in hell? Does that matter, when making a flirtatious comment? Surely people draw comparisons all the time to lovers who die horribly…_ )

“What?” Marius said, snapping back to attention.

“I said,” Theodule said, throwing Marius a funny look. “This is my cousin Marius Pontmercy, long absent from Paris, longer from polite society. Forgive the state of his shoes, I tried my best.” 

“What a pleasure,” Lucile murmured, her entire being a sheen of inscrutable politeness. “As your cousin as doubtless told you, I am Lucile Bouchard, and this is my dear friend, Euphrasie Fauchelevent.”

“Cosette,” she blurted out.

“—what?”

“Most everyone calls me Cosette,” she said, casting an apologetic glance at Lucile and wishing very much she’d just kept her mouth shut. 

But it was _him._

Two years had changed her much more than they had him, at least physically. He still favored somber colors, but his dove-grey coat looked like it was possibly even new. She had been quietly taught by friends in London how to dress for her age (and Lucile had refused to allow her to wear the tartan gown), and that first wild blaze of beauty— it had not faded, precisely, but she had learned to wear it with more ease; she could go unnoticed when it pleased her. Theodule barely gave her a second glance. 

“Marius translates travel guides,” Theodule offered into the silence that followed. His captain’s uniform made his own profession quite plain, if Lucile had not already known it. “English and German.”

“Ah!” Lucile said. “Why, Cosette has just come from two years in England.” 

“ _I know many words, but my grammar is very bad_ ,” she said apologetically in English.

“ _I know the grammar,_ ” Marius replied in the same. “ _But I never speak it. My pronunciation is appalling, I don’t doubt._ ” 

Cosette smiled. “ _We will help each other, then._ ” 

*

“Oh, thank God,” Lucile said when Joly and Lesgle were led to the drawing room at last. She rose to greet them and muttered, “They’ve been going on in English for the past twenty minutes.”

Lesgle brightened. “Oh, I know some English—” 

“Don’t you _dare._ ” She turned to Joly with a smile. “What a wonderful surprise to see you.” 

“And you,” Joly replied. “And you, captain. And— Marius?” 

“I am trying to encourage my cousin to make himself known in polite society,” Theodule said. “And who better to help encourage him, I thought, than the lovely Mademoiselle Bouchard?” 

“You’re too kind,” Lucile said. “Please, come sit. This is my dear school friend, Cosette Fauchelevent, come to stay for the wedding.” 

This, Joly realized with a strange kind of detachment, was what he had spent his childhood imagining what adulthood would be like. Men and women gathered primly in a drawing room (the rather scandalous fact that all present were unmarried set aside), talking about nothing of consequence, drinking some tea. He had _wanted_ this once. And for just this one instant, here he was. It was a hugely disconcerting sensation, and he brought it to an abrupt end by spilling his tea on Theodule’s lap. 

Theodule leapt to his feet with a yelp. Immediately, five handkerchiefs were proffered in his behalf. He took Lesgle’s, as it was most tattered-looking. 

“I’ll send for some water—” Lucile said, rising, but Theodule held up a hand (and oh, Joly thought, thank goodness this fellow catches on quickly). 

“Perhaps, mademoiselle, it would be better if you excused me for a moment,” he said, politely but pointedly using Lesgle’s handkerchief to cover the area of the spill. Cosette blushed; Lucile lowered her eyes. 

“Quite so,” she said. “There is a parlor just this way, let me show you… Monsieur Joly, why don’t you come to assist Captain Gillenormand?” 

“Oh,” Joly looked surprised— he’d been anticipating having to make that suggestion himself. “Yes, what a good idea.” 

Lesgle’s eyes followed Lucile as she escorted the two gentlemen out of the room. 

“And how do you two know each other?” Cosette asked politely.

“Marius got me thrown out of law school,” Lesgle replied, beaming. 

Marius turned red. “Inadvertently!” 

“It was a kindness, mademoiselle, truly—even if he didn’t mean to perform it,” Lesgle said in response to Cosette’s rather startled expression. Seeing their hostess returning, he turned to her and said, “Mademoiselle Bouchard, would you like to hear the story of how Monsieur Pontmercy got me thrown out of law school?”

“It looks like Monsieur Pontmercy does not want to hear it,” Lucile noted. “Cosette, why don’t you show Monsieur Pontmercy the gardens? Then Monsieur Lesgle can tell all the humiliating stories he pleases, and everyone will be content.” 

“Monsieur?” Cosette asked, looking hesitantly to Marius. “If you would like?”

“I would be honored, mademoiselle,” Marius replied at once, and rose to offer Cosette his arm. 

“Playing matchmaker, are you?” Lesgle murmured as they departed. 

“Why not?” Lucile replied. “I needed them out of the way, and they looked eager enough for it. You should have seen them going on and on in English. I would have given anything to know what they were saying that had them both blushing so— though I think they thought the captain and I couldn’t tell.” 

“Marius had a lover once, at least according to Courfeyrac, but it was years ago now,” Lesgle said. “He’s long overdue for another go.” 

“Enough about Marius,” Lucile said. “Why on earth did you invite Joly with you?”

“Well, you see, your letter was mistakenly delivered to him,” Lesgle lied smoothly. “And he, not knowing what to make of such an invitation, begged me to accompany him. I didn’t know how I could possibly contrive to come alone.”

Lucile looked faintly suspicious, but nodded. “Well. I have bought us a few minutes at least. We’d better make the most of it.” 

“Oh, but…” Lesgle began. It was his duty, in their carefully orchestrated plan, to lead Lucile in search of Joly and Theodule after an appropriate interval, that she might discover them in an indelicate position. But his sentence, and all thoughts of this plan, were immediately forestalled when Lucile swept in for a kiss. 

*

“—your mind is elsewhere,” Theodule said.

“Well… yes,” Joly was forced to concede. He smoothed down his hair guiltily as Theodule stepped away, tugging his shirt closed. “I have perhaps not been entirely honest with you.”

“I certainly never demanded honesty,” Theodule said. “But feel free to confess, if you feel you must.” 

“I’m afraid I was planning to use you as an excuse to break off my engagement to Mademoiselle Bouchard,” Joly said. “Or, rather, to make her break it off. Bossuet was meant to bring her to discover us—entirely accidentally, you know— but he seems to have somehow gotten waylaid. Which I should have anticipated, really.

“Not a bad plan,” Theodule said, evidently unoffended at being made a pretense. “Distractions aside.” 

“He’s probably managed to break something,” Joly muttered. “Either an object or one of his own body parts. Perhaps we’d best go looking.” 

“Right— just give me a moment—”

“Your moustache is in utter disarray…” 

“Don’t laugh, at least I can grow one.” 

“I’ve _tried,_ the effect was not— this is beside the point. How’s my cravat?” 

After aiding one another with the necessary adjustments, Joly and Theodule slipped back into the hall and headed for the drawing room where they had left the others. Suddenly, Theodule stopped, holding up a hand to stop Joly as well.

“What?” Joly asked.

“I hear someone laughing,” Theodule said. “But not in there. Could they have gone?”

“If there has been some kind of mishap, Bossuet will almost certainly be laughing about it,” Joly said. “Let’s go see.” 

They veered away, following the sound of the laughter—it seemed to be a man’s and a woman’s—away from the drawing room and back towards the foyer, where they discovered the source of the laughter: Marius and Cosette. 

“Marius,” Joly said. “I don’t think I have ever heard you laugh.”

“Do you mean it?” Cosette asked, still half-breathless, her tone quivering with barely suppressed giggles. “Monsieur Pontmercy, are you as dour as your clothes?”

It didn’t seem that anything untoward had occurred: they were simply discussing something that both seemed to find very funny. The only oddness, as far as Joly could see, was that one of the people flushed with laughter was Marius Pontmercy. 

Marius glanced down at his coat. “Are my clothes dour?”

“A touch of color is fashionable,” Cosette replied. “You might look very nice in blue. Perhaps just a hint of red?” 

“Not to interrupt this unprecedented merriment,” Joly said. “And she is right, you know, about the clothes— but where did you leave Lesgle and Mademoiselle Bouchard?” 

“We went to see the garden,” Cosette said. “And left them in the drawing room. I imagine they’re still there.” 

“Well, shall we back, then?” Theodule asked. “Marius? Mademoiselle Fauchelevent? Will you join us?” 

“Yes, of course,” Cosette said. Marius offered his arm, which she took, and they fell into step behind Joly and Theodule, back towards the drawing room.

Where they did indeed find Lesgle and Lucile.

“Oh,” Joly said. “Er.”

“Um,” Lesgle said.

Theodule said, “Wasn’t this supposed to go the other way ‘round?”

*

Because he knew the way, Theodule was dispatched to fetch Musichetta, and because no one knew what else do with him, Marius was sent along. Cosette showed them to the door, and as she turned away Marius stayed her with a timid hand on her sleeve. 

“I want to see you again,” he said. “That— that is, if you wish.”

“I would like that. But—” She hesitated, her gaze slipped down to the floor for an instant, before lifting back up to Marius. “But I feel I must be honest. Well, I want to be honest, but I don’t know how, because I don’t entirely know what I want to say, or how to say it… it seems very possible to me that I am still in love with you. But I think I am not who I was. So I cannot say for sure.” 

Marius glanced over his shoulder (Theodule was idling on the doorstep and had discreetly turned his back), then gently took hold of Cosette’s hand. “I cannot tell you how happy I am to hear it. I do not know who I was— _what_ I was then, what I was thinking, but I know I fell in love with you— as you were, as I was. So perhaps I can come to you— without secrecy, this time— and we will see if it happens again.”

She nodded, smiling. “Now go. And hurry back. It’s like something from a play, all this, when you get back I’ll tell you all that Lucile told me.” 

*

“Well,” Musichetta said as soon as she swept through the door (Theodule had made a pretense of tactfully retreating before immediately returning, along with Marius and Cosette, to listen at the door). “What have you told them?”

“Ah… nothing,” Lucile replied. “I really didn’t know where to begin.” 

“How do you two know each other?” Joly asked, bewildered. 

“Oh, well… that one is my fault,” Lesgle said. “Musichetta wished to be acquainted, which seemed to be a fair enough desire…” 

“You could’ve asked me,” Joly said, sounding a bit wounded.

Musichetta arched a brow. “Ask you to please introduce me to your fiancée?”

“…yes, alright,” Joly conceded. “Now, how did you two--?”

“You recall we met at that party,” Lucile said. She seemed entirely composed, save for the handkerchief she had all but tied into a knot in her hands. “I thought— I thought that he was you. That he was Monsieur Joly, I mean. Which was why, um… well, there was some confusion.” She looked down, embarrassed. 

“But—why, this is perfect!” Joly cried. “Mademoiselle Bouchard, I confess I brought you here in hopes of behaving in such a way as to compel you to break off the engagement. You see, I am in love--” He broke off and turned to Musichetta. “Musichetta, I love you. I have loved you all these years and I know I cannot marry you, but I think I cannot marry anyone else, either.” 

“Joly…” Musichetta began.

“But don’t you see?” he broke in eagerly. “It seems we’re all in agreement now. Mademoiselle Bouchard can break off the engagement, she will suffer no disgrace…”

“No,” Lucile said. 

Joly stopped short. Lesgle felt suddenly as if a very heavy weight had been dropped neatly into his stomach, like a stone into still water. 

“Why?” Lesgle managed at last, as Joly seemed to have been rendered speechless.

“I cannot,” Lucile said serenely. 

“And again… why?”

“It will not solve anyone’s problem,” Musichetta said. 

“But—” Lesgle began. He stopped. He looked from Musichetta to Lucile. Suddenly, the lead weight lifted from his stomach. “…you have a plan, too, don’t you.” 

“Yes,” Musichetta said. “And it requires that Joly and Lucile marry.” 

“You needn’t look so _very_ distressed,” Lucile said. “After all, you must marry, and so must I. But I like Musichetta very well, and would be so very content to have her spend a great deal of time with us. And no doubt you feel the same way about your dear friend Lesgle.” 

“…oh,” Joly said. “ _Oh._ That’s… ohhh.” 

Musichetta lifted a brow. “Yes?” 

“Oh, yes,” Lesgle said. 

“And you, Monsieur Joly?” Lucile asked, looking to him. Joly was silent for several moments, then abruptly stood. Then, with a sharp flick, he tossed back the skirts of his coat and sunk down on one knee before Lucile. He offered his hand. She, fighting back a laugh, looking to Lesgle, took it. 

“Mademoiselle Bouchard,” Joly said, eyes on Musichetta. “Won’t you marry me?”


End file.
